Morning Rituals
(for don zirilli)



     You wake up Monday morning: 7:30ish -- the sheets are cold and a
familiar toasty body is missing -- no surprise, it's been this
way a month, but you still notice the cold.  S/he's missing for one of
three reasons: a) watermelon seeds blew off the second story
fire-escape, b) kitchen mildew grew a bit too rampantly, c) 
polka-dotted fever broke out one day.  Take your pick.  You gingerly
step out onto the mangled carpet, with smoke-stains, but not yours.

     Damn, the alarm is still blaring like a cow without milking, and
as you hit the "snooze" button which is worn from repeated use, you
remember that you forgot to buy milk the other day.  Wheeling your cart
down the grocery aisles like how you're swerving half-awake to the
bathroom now, you passed Gerbers and Tide and Smuckers and Laura Lee,
but how you missed Brand X milk is beyond you.  Well, as you spit some
mouthwash, you carefully avoid washing his/her hairs in the basin down
to the dark J curve.

     Eventually, you make it to the kitchen.  Out the window, plastic
ducks are windmilling their arms against the breeze.  As you crack open
two eggs, you wonder how they'd feel, seeing your abortive breakfast.
Probably not much different than how you feel.  Sushi isn't on the
menu, anyhow.  On a white plate, you lay the yellow souffle, but as you
try to manage the mass, the utensils are speaking in tongues.  "Praise
the Lord!" a fork screams (translated), as it crashes against a knife.
"May your children be a multitude!  May you live in eternal glory and
love!  May your sins be ... !"  Grabbing a heavy cloth napkin, you
muffle them -- they're just too much.

     Finally, you dig your fingers into the fluffly souffle, and
stuff some into your mouth.  Yum!  The smell of ketchup fills your
nose.  You didn't put any on today, but the sensory associations can be
so strong.  Halfway through, you decide to sprinkle some bodily fluids
on.  They come in a little red bottle, shaped like a honeybear, and
squeeze out quite slowly.  Now and then, you rub its belly for luck.

     You finish eating, and the dishes visit the ceramosteelomat, and
you're off to work!  throwing on shoe and watch!  Wait, that damn
alarm!  Forgot to do "off" instead of "snooze" -- bzzzz! bzzzz!
bzzzzz!  In your dive to turn it off, you slam into the bed with your
arcing trajectory.

     The sheets are still cold.



     --jennifer crystal chien